The Alexandria Link

Chapter Twenty-One

 
FORTY-SIX
LISBON
3:30 PM
MALONE STARED AT THE MONASTERY OF SANTA MARIA DE Belem. He, Pam, and Jimmy McCollum had flown from London to Lisbon then taken a cab from the airport to the waterfront.
Lisbon sat perched on a broad switchback of hills that overlooked the sea-like Tejo estuary, a place of wide symmetrical boulevards and handsome tree-filled squares. One of the world's grandest suspension bridges spanned the mighty river and led to a towering statue of Christ, arms outstretched, which embraced the city from the eastern shore. Malone had visited many times and was always reminded of San Francisco, both in physical makeup and in the city's propensity for earthquakes. Several had left their mark.
All countries possessed splendid things. Egypt, the pyramids. Italy, St. Peter's. England, Westminster. France, Versailles. Listening to the cabdriver on the ride from the airport, he knew that, for Portugal, national pride came from the abbey that sprawled out before him. Its white limestone façade stretched longer than a football field, aged like old ivory, and combined Moorish, Byzantine, and French Gothic in an exuberance of decorations that seemed to breathe life into the towering walls.
People crowded everywhere. A camera-toting parade streamed in and out from the entrances. Across a busy boulevard and train tracks that fronted the impressive south façade, tourist buses waited in an angled line, like ships moored in a harbor. A sign informed visitors of how the abbey was first erected in 1500 to satisfy a promise made by King Manuel I to the Virgin Mary and was built on the site of an old mariners' hospice first constructed by Prince Henry the Navigator. Columbus, da Gama, and Magellan had all prayed here before their journeys. Through the centuries the massive structure had served as a religious house, a retirement home, and an orphanage. Now it was a World Heritage Site, restored to much of its former glory.
"The church and abbey are dedicated to St. Jerome," he heard one of the tour guides say to a crowd in Italian. "Symbolic in that both Jerome and this monastery represented new points of departure for Christianity. Ships left here to discover the New World and bring them Christ. Jerome translated the ancient Bible into Latin, so more could discover its wonder." He could tell that McCollum understood the woman, too.
"Italian one of your languages?" he asked.
"I know enough."
"A man of many talents."
"Whatever's necessary."
He caught the surly attitude. "So what's next in this quest?"
McCollum produced another slip of paper upon which was written some of the first excerpt and more of the cryptic phrases.
It is a mystery, but visit the chapel beside the Tejo, in Bethlehem, dedicated to our patron saint. Begin the journey in the shadows and complete it in the light, where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross, and converts silver to gold. Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found an other place. Then, like the shepherds of the painter Poussin, puzzled by the enigma, you will be flooded with the light of inspiration.
He handed the sheet to Pam and said, "Okay. Let's take a visit and see what's there."
They followed a thick swarm of tourists to the entrance. A sign indicated that admission to the church was free, but a ticket was required for the rest of the buildings.
Inside the church, in what was identified as the lower choir, the groined ceiling loomed low and produced an imposing gloom. To his left stood the cenotaph of Vasco da Gama. Simple and solemn, it abounded with nautical symbols. Another tomb, of the poet Luis de Camões, rested to his right along with a baptismal font. Bare walls in both niches added to both the austerity and the grandeur. People crowded the alcoves. Cameras flashed. Tour guides droned on about the significance of the dead.
Malone strolled into the nave and the initial dimness of the lower choir gave way to a bright wonder. Six slender columns, each a profusion of ornamentation twined with carved flowers, stretched skyward. The late-afternoon sun poured through a series of stained-glass windows. Rays and shadows chased one another across the limestone walls, gray with age. The vaulted roof resembled a sheaf of ribs, the columns like canopy supports, the mesh holding in place like a ship's rigging. Malone felt the presence of Saracens who once ruled Lisbon, and noticed Byzantine fancies. A thousand details multiplied around him without repetition.
Remarkable.
Even more remarkable, he thought, given that ancient masons possessed the nerve to build something so massive upon Lisbon's quivering ground.
Wooden pews that once accommodated monks now held only the inquisitive. A low murmur of voices echoed across the nave, periodically overshadowed by a calm voice through a public address system that requested silence in a variety of languages. Malone located the source of the admonition. A priest before a microphone, at the people's altar, in the center of the cross-shaped interior. Nobody seemed to pay the warning any heed-especially not the tour guides, who continued on with their paid discourses.
"This place is magnificent," Pam said.
He agreed. "The sign out front said it closes at five. We need tickets to the rest."
"I'll go get them," McCollum said. "But doesn't the clue lead us only here, to the church?"
"I have no idea. To be sure, let's have a look at whatever else there is."
McCollum made his way back through the clot of people to the portico.
"What do you think?" Pam asked, still holding the sheet of paper.
"About him or the quest?"
"Both are a problem."
He smiled. She was right. But as for the quest, "Some of it now makes sense. Begin the journey in the shadows and complete it in the light. The entrance does that nicely. Like a basement back there, then it opens into a bright attic."
The priest again quietly admonished the crowd to stay silent and everyone again ignored him.
"He has a tough job," Pam said.
"Like the kid taking names when the teacher leaves the room."
"Okay, Mr. Genius," she said. "What about where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross, and converts silver to gold. Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place."
He was already thinking about that and his attention was drawn forward, to the chancel, where a rectangular floor plan led to a concave wall backdropping the high altar, all topped with a combination of hemispherical dome, barrel vault, and stone-coffered ceiling. Ionic and Corinthian pillars rose symmetrically on three sides of the chancel, framing vaulted stone chambers that displayed elaborate royal tombs. Five paintings wrapped the concave wall, everything drawing the eye to the majestic baroque sacrarium that stood in the center, elevated, above the high altar.
He wove his way around loitering tourists to the far side of the people's altar. Velvet ropes blocked any entrance to the chancel. A placard informed him that the sacrarium, made entirely of silver, had been crafted by goldsmith João de Sousa between 1674 and 1678. Even from fifty feet away the ornate repository, full of detail, appeared magnificent.
He turned and stared back through the nave, past the pillars and pews, to the lower choir, where they'd entered.
Then he saw it. In the upper choir, past a thick stone balustrade, fifty feet above the church floor. High in the farthest exterior wall, a huge eye glared down at him. The circular window stretched ten feet or more in diameter. Mullions and traceries radiated from its center. Roof ribs wound a twisting path back toward it and seemed to dissolve into its shadowless radiance, bright as a stage lamp and suffusing the church's interior.
A common adornment to many medieval churches. Named after its fanciful shape.
Rose window.
Facing due west. Late in the day. Blazing like the sun.
But there was more.
At the center of the upper choir's balustrade stood a large cross. He stepped forward and noticed that the cross fit perfectly into the round of the window, the brilliant rays flooding past it into the nave.
Where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross, and converts silver to gold.
Seems they'd found the place.
FORTY-SEVEN
VIENNA
4:30 PM
THORVALDSEN ADMIRED ALFRED HERMANN'S SPECTACLE OF flowers, water, and marble, the enormous garden an obvious labor of several generations. Shady walks wound out from the chateau to grassy glades, the brick paths lined with statues, bas-reliefs, and fountains. Every so often French influences yielded to a clear taste for Italy.
"Who are the people who own this place?" Gary asked.
"The Hermanns are a family of long standing in Austria, just as my family is in Denmark. Quite wealthy and powerful."
"Is he your friend?"
An interesting question, considering his suspicions. "Up until a few days ago, I believed that to be the case. But now I'm not so sure."
He was pleased with the boy's inquisitiveness. He knew about Gary's parentage. When he'd returned from taking Gary back home after their summer visit, Malone had told him what Pam had revealed. Thorvaldsen had feigned ignorance when he'd first seen her a few nights ago, though he'd instantly known her identity. Her presence in his house, with Malone, signaled trouble, which was why he'd stationed Jesper outside the study door. Pam Malone was high-strung. Luckily she'd calmed down. She should have been back in Georgia by now. Instead, the caller from Tel Aviv had said, Seems Malone and his ex-wife are presently on their way to Lisbon.
What was happening? Why go there? And where was the Talons of the Eagle?
"We've come here," he said to Gary, "to help your father."
"Dad never said anything about us leaving. He told me to stay put and be careful."
"But he also said for you to do as I say."
"So when he yells at me, I expect you to take the blame."
He grinned. "With pleasure."
"You ever seen a person shot?"
He knew Tuesday's memory had to be troubling, no matter how brave the lad wanted to be. "Several times."
"Dad shot the man dead. But you know what? I didn't care."
He shook his head at the bravado. "Careful, Gary. Don't ever become accustomed to killing. No matter how much someone may deserve it."
"I didn't mean it that way. It's only, he was a bad man. He threatened to kill Mom."
They passed a marble column surmounted by a statue of Diana. A breeze caressed the trees and trembled shadows cast out on the undulating turf. "Your father did what he had to do. He didn't like it. He just did it."
"And I would have, too."
Genetics be damned. Gary was Malone's son. And though the boy was but fifteen, his indignation could certainly be aroused-just like his father's-especially if a loved one was threatened. Gary knew his parents had traveled to London, but he didn't know his mother was still involved. He deserved the truth.
"Your mother and father are on their way to Lisbon."
"That's what the call in the room was about?"
He nodded and smiled at the decisive manner in which the boy handled news.
"Why is Mom still with him? She didn't say a word about staying when she called last night. They don't get along."
"I have no idea. We'll have to wait until one of them calls again." But he desperately wanted to know the answer to that question, too.
Ahead, he spotted their destination. A circular pavilion of colored marble topped by gilded iron. Its open balustrade overlooked a crystalline lake, the silvery surface quiet in the shade.
They entered and he approached a railing.
Massive vases packed with aromatic flowers dotted the interior. As always, Hermann had made sure the estate was a showpiece.
"Somebody's coming," Gary said.
He did not look back. He didn't have to. He saw her in his mind. Short, dumpy, exhaling loudly as she walked. He kept his gaze toward the lake and enjoyed the sweet smell of grass, flowers, and experience.
"Is she coming fast?"
"How did you know it's a woman?"
"You'll learn, Gary, that you cannot win a fight if your enemy is not, in some ways, predictable."
"It's Mr. Hermann's daughter."
He continued to admire the lake, watching a family of ducks paddle toward shore. "Say nothing to her about anything. Listen, but speak little. That's how you discover what you need to know."
He heard soles slapping the pavilion's stone flooring and turned as Margarete marched close.
"They told me in the house that you'd come here," she said. "And I remembered this was one of your favorite places."
He smiled at her evident satisfaction. "It has privacy. So far from the chateau. The trees provide tranquility. I do like this spot. A favorite of your mother's, if I recall."
"Father built it specially for her. She spent her last day alive here."
"You miss her?"
"She died when I was young. So we were never close. But Father misses her."
"You don't miss your mother?" Gary asked.
Though the boy had violated what he'd been cautioned, Thorvaldsen didn't mind the inquiry. He was actually curious, too.
"Of course I miss her. It's simply that we were not close-as mother and daughter."
"You seem to have acquired an interest in the family businesses and the Order."
He watched as thoughts dialed into her mind. She'd inherited more of her father's rugged Austrian looks than her mother's Prussian beauty. Not a particularly attractive woman-dark-haired, brown eyes, with a thin, high nose. But who was he to judge, considering his crooked spine, bushy hair, and weathered skin? He wondered about suitors, but decided this woman would never give herself to anyone. She was a taker.
"I'm the only Hermann left." And she added a smile that was surely intended to be comforting, but instead flashed with annoyance.
"Does that mean you will inherit all this?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
He shrugged. "I have no idea what your father thinks. I have found, though, that there are no guarantees in this world."
He saw that she did not like his implications. He gave her no time to react and asked, "Why did your father try to harm this boy?"
His sudden inquiry inspired a baffled look. She clearly wasn't a master of the stoic, either-not like her father.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
He wondered. Maybe Hermann had kept his plans from her.
"Then you have no idea what die Klauen der Adler is doing?"
"He's not my responsib-" She caught herself.
"Not to worry, my dear. I know of him. I only wondered if you did."
"That man is a problem."
Now he knew she was not a part of anything. Too much information flowed far too freely. "I wholeheartedly agree. But as you say, neither of us has any responsibility for him. Only the Circle."
"I was unaware the members knew of him."
"There are many things I'm aware of. In particular, what your father is doing. That, too, is a problem."
She seemed to catch the conviction in his tone. Her chubby face flashed a nervous smile. "Remember where you are, Henrik. This is Hermann land. We command what happens here. So you shouldn't concern yourself."
"That's an interesting observation. One I'll try not to forget."
"I think, perhaps, you and Father need to finish this conversation."
She turned to leave, and as she did he raised an arm in a quick gesture.
From thick cypresses, heavy with age, three men materialized, dressed in camouflage fatigues. They trotted forward and arrived just as Margarete stepped from the pavilion.
Two of the men grabbed her.
One clamped a hand over her mouth.
She resisted.
"Henrik," Gary said. "What's Jesper doing here?"
The third man was his chamberlain, who'd flown in earlier and infiltrated the estate. From other visits, Thorvaldsen knew-contrary to Margarete's boast-that the heaviest security was confined to the house. The remaining hundreds of acres were neither fenced nor patrolled.
"Stand still," he said to her.
She stopped struggling.
"You're going with these gentlemen."
Her head shook violently.
He'd expected her to be difficult. So he nodded and the hand over her mouth was replaced with a cloth, one he knew contained enough anesthetic to induce a deep sleep. Only a few seconds were required for the vapors to work. Her body went limp.
"What are you doing?" Gary asked. "Why are you hurting her?"
"I'm not. But I assure you, they would have hurt you if your father had not acted." He faced Jesper. "Keep her safe, as we discussed."
His employee nodded. One of the men draped Margarete's stout body over his shoulder, and all three retreated into the trees.
"You knew she'd come out here?" Gary asked.
"As I said, it's good to know your enemy."
"Why are you taking her?"
He liked lessons and missed teaching Cai. "You don't drive a car without insurance. What we're about to do has risks, as well. She's our insurance."
FORTY-EIGHT
WASHINGTON, DC
STEPHANIE FROZE. HEATHER DIXON WAS ARMED AND ON guard. Cassiopeia's eyes raked the bedroom, and she knew that her cohort was looking for anything that could be used as a weapon.
"What is it?" she heard Daley ask Dixon.
"Your alarm is off. That means somebody's here."
"Big leap in logic, wouldn't you say?"
"Did you arm the panel before you left?"
A moment of silence passed. Stephanie knew they were trapped.
"I don't know," Daley said. "I may have forgotten. Wouldn't be the first time."
"Why don't I take a look just to be sure?"
"Because I don't have time for you to play soldier, and that gun in your hand is getting me hot. You're some kind of sexy."
"A flatterer today. That'll get you everything."
More silence, then a protest with a half-smothered moan.
"Easy on my head. That knot hurts."
"You okay?" Daley asked.
A zipper released.
"Toss that gun down," Daley said.
Footsteps thumped up the stairway.
She stared at Cassiopeia and whispered, "I don't believe this."
"At least we know where both of them are."
Good point, but little comfort. "I've got to check this out."
Cassiopeia clamped a hand onto her arm. "Leave them be."
Contrary to the past twelve hours where she'd made, at best, questionable decisions, she was thinking clearly now. She knew what needed to be done.
She crept from the bedroom and entered the den. A stairway just beyond led up, the front door to her right. She heard murmured voices, laughter, and the sound of the floorboards being challenged.
"What the hell's going on?" Stephanie wondered out loud.
"Didn't your investigation find this?"
She shook her head. "Not a word. Must be recent."
Cassiopeia disappeared back down the hall. She lingered a moment and spotted the same revolver Heather Dixon had drawn on her yesterday, lying in one of the chairs.
She grabbed the gun and left the den.
MALONE STARED AT THE ROSE WINDOW AND CHECKED HIS watch: 4:40 PM. This late in the year, the sun would start to set sometime in the next ninety minutes.
"This building is oriented on an east-west axis," he said to Pam. "That window is there to catch the evening sun. We need to go up there."
He spotted a doorway where an arrow indicated the upper choir. He walked over and found, nestled against the church's north wall, a wide stone stairway with a barrel-vaulted ceiling that made it look more like a tunnel.
He followed a crowd up.
At the top they entered the choir.
Two rows of high-backed wooden benches faced each other, ornamented with festoons and arabesques. Above them hung baroque paintings of various apostles. The aisle between the benches led to the church's west wall and the rose window thirty feet above.
He stared up.
Dust motes floated in the sheets of bright sunlight. He turned and studied the cross rising at the far end of the upper choir. He and Pam approached the balustrade and he admired the dramatic realism of the carved image of Christ. A placard at its base informed in two languages
CRISTO NA CRUZ
CHRIST ON THE CROSS
C. 1550
ESCULTURA EM MADEIRA POLICROMA
POLYCHROMED WOODEN SCULPTURE
"Where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross," Pam said. "This is it."
He agreed. But he was thinking about the next words.
And converts silver to gold.
He glanced back at the blazing rose window and followed the dusty rays as they passed the cross and entered the nave. Below, the light cleaved a trench on the checkerboard floor down a center aisle that bisected the pews. People milled about and didn't seem to notice. The light continued east to the people's altar and threw a faint glowing line onto its red carpet.
McCollum appeared from the lower choir and walked down the center aisle toward the front of the church.
"He's going to be wondering where we are," Pam said.
"He's not going anywhere. He seems to need us."
McCollum stopped between the last of the six columns and looked around, then turned and spotted them. Malone held up his palm and motioned for him to wait there, then displayed his index finger, signaling they'd be down in a minute.
He'd told McCollum the truth. He was pretty good with puzzles. This one had, at first, proved confusing, but now, staring down into a mass of carvings, ribs, and arches, a harmony of lines and interweaving stones that time, nature, and neglect had barely altered, he knew the solution.
His gaze followed the rays of the setting sun as they crossed into the chancel, bisected the high altar, and found the silver sacrarium.
Which glinted gold.
He hadn't noticed the phenomenon when they'd been down close. Or perhaps the retreating sun had not as yet properly angled itself. But the transformation was now clear.
Silver to gold.
He saw that Pam noticed, too.
"That's amazing," she said. "How the light does that."
The rose window was clearly positioned so the setting sun would, at least for a few minutes, find the sacrarium. Apparently the silver receptacle had been placed with great deliberation, one of the six paintings surrounding it removed, the symmetry that medieval builders cherished disturbed.
He thought of the final part of the quest.
Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place.
And he headed for the stairs.
At ground level he approached the velvet ropes that still blocked access into the chancel. He noticed the interplay of black, white, and red marble, which lent an atmosphere of nobility-only fitting, because the chancel served as a royal family mausoleum.
The sacrarium stood thirty feet away.
Close inspection of it was not a part of the visitors' experience. The priest at the people's altar announced over the public address system that the church and monastery would close in five minutes. Many of the tours were already departing, and more people started for the exit.
He'd noticed earlier that there was some sort of image etched on the sacrarium's door, behind which would have once been stored the blessed sacrament. Perhaps it still held the Host. Though a World Heritage Site, more tourist attraction than church, the nave was surely used for special observances. Similar to St. Paul's and Westminster. Which would explain why people were kept at a distance from what was clearly the building's centerpiece.
McCollum came close. "I have tickets."
He pointed to the sacrarium. "I need a closer look at that, without all these witnesses."
"Could be tough. I assume everyone is going to be hustled out of here in the next few minutes."
"You don't strike me as a man who bows to authority."
"Neither do you."
He thought about Avignon and what he and Stephanie had done there on a rainy June night.
"Then let's find a place to hide till everyone leaves."
STEPHANIE TIPTOED BACK INTO THE ALCOVE. SHE NEEDED TO find Daley's hiding place before things climaxed upstairs. She hoped neither Dixon nor Daley was in a rush, though Daley had sounded hurried.
Cassiopeia was already quietly searching.
"The report said he never left this desk with the flash drives. He used them on his laptop, but didn't leave with them. He'd always tell her to head on to the bedroom and he'd be right along." Her words were more breath than voice.
"We're really pushing it staying here."
She stopped and listened. "Sounds like they're still busy."
Cassiopeia eased opened the desk drawers, testing for hiding places. But Stephanie doubted that she'd find anything. Too obvious. Her gaze again scanned the bookshelves and her eyes stopped at one of the political treatises, a thin, taupe-colored volume with blue lettering.
Hardball by Chris Matthews.
She recalled the story Daley had shared with Green when he'd boasted about his newfound authority with the Magellan Billet.
What was it he'd said?
Power is what you hold.
She reached for the book, opened it, and discovered that the last third of the pages had been glued together; a cavity about a quarter inch deep had been hollowed out. Nestled inside were five flash drives, each labeled with a Roman numeral.
"How did you know?" Cassiopeia whispered.
"I'm actually frightened that I did. I'm beginning to think like the idiot."
Cassiopeia started for the rear of the house, toward the back door, but Stephanie grabbed her arm and motioned for the front. Confusion stared back at her-an expression that questioned, Why ask for trouble?
They stepped into the den, then the foyer.
An alarm keypad adjacent to the front door indicated that the system was still idle. She held Dixon's gun.
"Larry," she called out.
Silence.
"Larry. Could I have a moment?"
Footsteps thumped across the upper floor and Daley appeared in the bedroom doorway, pants on, bare-chested.
"Love the hair, Stephanie. New look? And the clothes. Catchy."
"Just for you."
"What are you doing here?"
She flashed the book. "Came for your stash."
Alarm flooded Daley's boyish face.
"That's right. Time for you to sweat. And Heather?" Her voice rose. "I'm disappointed in your choice of lovers."
Dixon paraded naked from the bedroom, sporting not even a hint of shame. "You're dead."
Stephanie shrugged. "That remains to be seen. At the moment I have your gun." She displayed the weapon.
"What are you going to do?" Daley asked.
"Haven't decided yet." But she wanted to know, "You two been at this long?"
"It's not your concern," Dixon said.
"Just curious. I interrupted only to let you know that now there's more to this game than just my hide."
"You apparently know quite a bit," Daley said. "Who's your friend?"
"Cassiopeia Vitt," Dixon answered.
"I'm flattered you know me."
"I owe you for the dart in the neck."
"No need to thank me."
"Back to bed for you two," Stephanie said.
"I don't think so." Dixon started down the stairs, but Stephanie aimed the automatic. "Don't push me, Heather. I'm recently unemployed and have a warrant out for my arrest."
The Israeli stopped, perhaps sensing that this was not the time to challenge.
"The bedroom," Stephanie said.
Dixon hesitated.
"Now."
Dixon retreated to the top of the stairs. Stephanie gathered up the Israeli's clothes, including her shoes. "You wouldn't dare risk public exposure," she said to Daley, "coming after us. But she might. This will at least slow her down."
And they left.